


The Encounter

by castiel_in_his_cell



Series: r i d i c u l o u s      f a i t h [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Abusive Relationships, Bad Parent John Winchester, M/M, Other, Protective Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, The Joker - Freeform, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, batman/ supernatural crossover, hunting harley quinn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4489818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castiel_in_his_cell/pseuds/castiel_in_his_cell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is 13 years old and his dad has sent him to question the Joker about Harley Quinn. Dean then returns home. The story focuses on the moral and abusive complexity between John and Dean, the protective relationship between Sam and Dean, and the strangely familiar connection between Dean and the Joker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Encounter

I look around the room. It’s a small apartment, on a low floor, only it doesn’t look like it. It doesn’t look like anything to be honest. The ground is clothed with a burgundy carpet, which sits there like an ancient cat, doing nothing but collecting dust. And the floor is scattered with old sheets of paper, which are torn and frayed, with yellowing sides and softening material. So soft that they bend off the edges of tables like hanging pieces of cloth. What’s on them, I can’t see, my perception changes. Images focus and blur in such a quick succession that it’s hard to step around the room. It must just be because of how scared I am. There are a few pieces of furniture; a desk, couch and chair…I think. As I said, I can’t tell at all. Every object remains still in its dull and greying atmosphere, as if it’s too tired to move. No breath of life, no beating of the heart, no rise of lungs emit from this unusual room.

After being momentarily distracted by the surroundings of the room, I suddenly recall what I came here to look for. I am about to call out to see if anyone is here, but the words are cut off my tongue by a familiar voice. The voice shakes. It goes up and down, stops and starts unpredictably. It slows and then speeds up abruptly, like an uncontrollable wild animal. Yet, the voice is not a loud burst of sound, it is a quiet quiver…trembling in a dark corner of the room. It is entangled with little giggles and embroidered with pauses. Pauses which are filled with silence, but yet the subtle squelching of his moving face muscles spurts into the air. 

“You looking for me?”

I spin to the origin of the sound as a black silhouette rises from the shadows. Purple coat. Red smile. Black eyes. 

“Dean…” I shudder at the sound of my name upon his lips. 

He stands up, and smothers his filthy gloved hands through his green hair. Green hair clothed in oil and sweat, so that it sticks together in one clump. He smacks his lips. His eyebrows knot and unknot as his forehead squeezes and releases, forming the subtle horizontal lines where his white makeup has rubbed off, and where his skin peeks through, acting as a reminder of his human mortality. Something so easily forgotten about him.

“So good to see you.” He says.

My posture stands strong. Feet apart, hands slightly bent and wide at my sides. I think it’s a posture of someone ready to fight, but my eyes give my cowardice away, resulting is me looking like a stiff, fake ken doll. I come on a bit too strong. I almost shout my words, trying to mask my terror.  
“I want to know about Harley Quinn.”

He approaches me.

“Hm.” Pause. “Why?” He says it like he doesn’t really want to know, as if he’s just saying it just because… just to… I honestly don’t know. I never know what he wants. Ever.  
“Just tell me about her.” I say.

He leans in close, and runs his hand through my hair, but not in a smooth way, not in one direction like how you’re supposed to stroke hair. He brushes it back, then forward, then scrunches it up, and draws a circle on my head with his fist. He puts his hand around my head, and suddenly pulls me. Before I can even think, or struggle to get free, we are standing cheek to cheek. 

He keeps a tight grip on me, although he doesn’t have to, because I’m too terrified to run, to fight. I hope he can’t feel me trembling, or hear my breath shaking. I can feel the sticky sweat of his face pressing against my cheek as my eyes start to redden with tears of fear. He whispers in my ear. 

“I think…” he says. Then I can feel his face contorting, accompanied by the squelching sound of his mouth. “I think it would be more fun if you found out on your own.” Then a giggle.

He pushes me away, and I stumble out the door.

Opening the door of our motel room, the first thing I see is Sammy. He’s sitting by the bed, which is hard and crappy enough to serve as a desk. So he’s colouring a picture on it. He’s enjoying himself. And he doesn’t know yet. I wish it could stay like that forever. Oh Sammy, I’m sorry the world has to be this way. And I would do anything to stop you from knowing.

I sit down beside him, and he looks up at me with wild gleaming eyes, as if I’m a hero. 

“How’s your drawing going?”  
“Good! It’s a picture of you and me.”  
“You haven’t drawn dad yet?”  
“Nope.”  
“Why not?”  
“He’s not in the picture.”

Sam is growing up, and he’s getting more aware. I’m not ready for all the questions he’s going to ask about our family.

“What’s that?” He points at my cheek.  
“What’s what?”  
“You’ve got white paint on your face, silly!”

I figured the Joker must have smudged his makeup onto my face after our little meeting. 

“Oh it’s nothing…”

I quickly get up, and go to the bathroom. Staring at my reflection, it’s true, he has left an imprint on me. I wince at image and the thought of him leaving a mark. I just want to forget about him. I just want to tear his mark off myself, so Sammy can’t see. I hastily splash my face with water so that it comes off, and then return beside my brother.  
“Was the white paint from the makeup man?” He says immediately.

“What? Who?” I ask abruptly and shocked. He couldn’t know about the Joker could he? God help me if he does.

“The man who wears makeup. The one dad keeps talking about. The one who’s really dangerous and kills people and blows up trucks and-"

His voice fades out as I look clearly at his face. He seems to be saying the horrible things that man does, but not quite understanding what the man does, as if the string of words being pulled out of his mouth are not his, they belong to a stranger. He doesn’t understand how much pain and death the ‘makeup man’ has caused. Suddenly the volume of his voice rises to my attention again.

“and he hits people and he does bad bad things and he-"

“Shh.” I interrupt. I just wanted him to stop reminding me of exactly who I had just encountered.

Then he bows his head in deep thought. There is a long pause. He suddenly looks up again. I find that his eyes are welled with tears, and he asks very quietly, “Dean…is the makeup man going to hurt you?” 

“No, no, no, no, no…” I don’t know why I can’t stop saying no: to reassure him, or to reassure myself. I put my arm around him while the trail of ‘no’s roll off my tongue. He leans on me and I hold him tight while tears of innocence slip down his cheeks. 

I can’t bear to see him cry. Not ever. 

As I wait until he calms down, I count each breath he takes. And then I say, “Don’t worry about him. He’s not real. He’s not your problem.”

“You’re contradicting yourself. If he’s not my problem that means he has to be someone else’s. Which means he is real. Which means-"  
“Which means you shouldn’t worry about him. Everything’s going to be okay. Get back to your drawing.”

Sam. He’s a smart kid. 

Dad enters.

The moment he enters, I stand. He puts down his shot gun.

“Did you get the information on Harley Quinn?” He asks. As usual, there’s no greeting, there’s no concerned inquiry, just a straight up question on the job. That’s him; job first, everything else comes second. 

I tilt my head and don’t look him in the eye. “No.” I respond in a whisper.

“What did you just say?”

“No, I didn’t.” I know better to give him a simple answer than make excuses to defend myself. 

“You…son of a…I trusted you to get this done. And you just screw everything up. Stop crying.”

I take a moment to wonder what on earth he’s talking about, I’m not crying. But that’s when I notice Sam’s drawing is ruined with tear drops, and his of us picture is fading among them. He sniffles quietly.

I mouth ‘go’ to give Sammy the signal to go to his room. I can’t imagine what this is like for him. Not knowing where dad goes for weeks, and witnessing him coming back shouting every rare time he ever does. Once I hear Sam’s bedroom door close, I look away. And I take a deep breath, to prepare myself for his criticism.  
But to my surprise, he says “You go back there tomorrow and ask him. Again. Don’t you dare mess up this time, or so help me God I will…”

His words trail off as I measure my dread of returning to that disgusting place. To feel the weight of that dead room again. To hear the whisper of the Joker’s words again. And to bear his mark left upon me again. A mark left for Sammy to see. A mark I can’t even bear to see in my reflection.

But still, I say, “Yes sir.”

When I open up the door to our bedroom, Sammy is lying on his bed under the covers. You can see him shaking already, which means he’s still crying. I sit beside him on the bed, and I stroke his hair. But then I stop, because it reminds me of that green glove running through my own hair. Its better he doesn’t know what the comfort of having his hair stroked is before someone ruins it for him. If mom was here, she’d stroke his hair until he’s fallen asleep. But I’m not mom, I wish I could be for him, but I’m not. 

“Why wasn’t he shouting?” He sits up in his bed.

When dad shouts, he’s scared. When he doesn’t shout, he’s still scared. There’s honestly no winning for him. I ignore his question.

“Don’t worry about it. Dad loves us.”

“If he loves us, then why would he let the makeup man hurt you?”

“Good night Sammy.” I tucked him back into bed. I wish I could give him more answers, because as I said. Sam. He’s a smart kid.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! This work is apart of a series that will soon be finished ; )


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